


Bones in the Dirt

by Bakuzan_Sickle_Claw



Category: Jurassic Park (1993), Jurassic Park (Movies), Jurassic Park - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Normal High School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Bickering, Chaos Theory, College, Computers, Fossils, Friendship/Love, Gay, Growing Up, High School, Horny Teenagers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash, Math and Science Metaphors, Mathematicians, Mathematics, Paleonology, School, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, Teenage Drama, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 05:49:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3839407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bakuzan_Sickle_Claw/pseuds/Bakuzan_Sickle_Claw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alan has senior year to finish, bones to dig up and the ever-intriguing Ian Malcolm to figure out what to do with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Partners

**Author's Note:**

> This is a high school AU set in modern times, and it's told in vignettes so there are jumps in time between chapters. I don't own Jurassic Park or these characters.

“Remember, all you need to do is model some sort of biological system,” Mrs. Udesky calls over the sound of trampling feet and scraping chairs. “It doesn’t have to be too complex. It can be a colony of bees. Or a disease spreading. Or plant growth. Don’t make this more complicated than it should be. Has everyone chosen a partner?” 

Alan Grant looks around, and not at all to his surprise, everyone else in the classroom is already partnered up and sitting at the computers that line the wall, some linking arms to cement their status. Even though it’s only the second week of senior year and Alan isn’t new to the school, it still seems like he’s the only one who hasn’t joined a specific clique or even made a friend. He’s been sitting alone at lunch and going home alone every day, so it’s no surprise that he has to do this alone as well. He’s getting up to find his own computer when the teacher’s voice pierces the air again. “Alan, who are you with?”

“Er, no one,” he quietly mumbles, avoiding her gaze.

“What’s that?” Mrs. Udesky asks.

“No one,” he says a little louder, gritting his teeth. “I can do it alone. It’s fine.”

“You have to have a partner,” she insists. “Who else doesn’t have a partner?” No one raises their hand. “Hold on, I see Ian in the back there. I think—yes, he’s by himself. Go work with Ian.” Before he can protest, she sits back down at her desk and begins typing something. Alan groans and makes himself walk over to where a kid named Ian Malcolm is seated, which is in the back as usual. The two of them share three or four classes; they’ve never spoken, but Alan knows all about Ian. He’s smarmy and obnoxious, thinks he’s better than everyone else and can’t keep it in his pants around girls. Not exactly someone Alan would rather work on the year’s first important project with. Now, though, it looks like he’s stuck.

He finds out where the tall, lanky kid with the curly hair is sitting and slides into a chair next to him. Ian doesn’t even acknowledge him, as he’s already absorbed in setting up some kind of program, his long fingers dancing across the keyboard. Alan can’t figure out what to say, so he just extends a “Hi.”

“How you doin’,” the kid answers, not taking his eyes off the computer screen. “Here’s how this is gonna work. I don’t know you and, I, uh, I know I can do this right, so you’re just gonna hang around and look like you know what you’re doing while I get this done with. I’m putting together an—an extinction simulator. If you want me to explain how I did it later, fine, but for now just let me work. Sound fair?”

Alan glances over at the lines of code that already fill the screen. “That looks like a random number generator,” he says.

Ian pauses. “I—I’m sorry?”

“That. Right there.” Alan points to the fifteenth line of boxy green letters and numbers. “Is it for randomizing species deaths? You’re not basing the entire simulator on the Field of Bullets Theory, are you? That’s a little unlikely, if you’re working with—” he reads another line, “moderately adaptable populations and climate conditions that predictable.”

Ian turns and stares at him, blinking in surprise for a moment. Then the side of his mouth turns up in an amused grin. “Huh,” he says. “All right.” He scoots his rolling chair over, and Alan wordlessly pulls his chair next to Ian’s and gets to work.


	2. Programming

Even by the standards of a public school, the computer lab that Ian and Alan occupy is ancient. The clunks and whirrs of the computers’ inner machinations are audible if the room is even slightly quiet. Normally Alan finds the sound irritating, but it’s a hell of a lot better than listening to Ian’s stuttering and self-righteous monologues. Between when the other boy finally shut up and the sunset began to bathe the entire lab in deep orange rays, Alan found a way to relax and get some work done.

To his surprise, Alan finishes his rows of code sooner than he thought he would. He glances over at Ian, who’s lazily typing a few numbers here and there. Regretting breaking the silence as soon as he opens his mouth, he says, “I’m finished.”

Ian sighs. “Good, good.” He removes his long legs from the computer desk, straightens up and stretches. “So when are we gonna merge ‘em?”

The codes that the two have been writing need to be combined before they can be inserted into the simulation. “Maybe tomorrow. After school.”

“We can’t after school. There’s, ah, that Spanish test to study for. ‘Has olvidado?’” 

Alan groans under his breath; somehow, Ian manages to get more and more annoying every day. “Fine, Thursday.” He abruptly stands and begins to gather his books.

“Well, that’s no good. Let’s just do it tonight. We can finish it at your place.”

Bewildered, Alan stops and turns to look at him. “What?”

“I’ll stop by your place and we’ll – we’ll merge the codes. Save us a lot of work later on,” he says casually, shrugging a battered red backpack onto his lanky shoulders. “Where do you live? I can bike home if, ah, it isn’t too far.” Alan puts his face in his hand and mentally groans over this kid’s horrible lack of common decency, and Ian continues, “Right, then we’ll have the Red Queen parameters done by maybe Friday, and then all we have to, uh, all we need to do is plug in the—”

“Collins Lane,” Alan snaps, just to shut him up. “I live on Collins Lane.”

“Do you really?” Ian finally gets his entire load on his back, jumping a little to shift the pack up to his shoulders. “I live ‘bout a block away from there. Hey, we could get a ton more work done this way. Guess we gotta partner up next time, too, huh?” He starts for the door, right behind Alan.

“You do realize I never actually invited you,” Alan starts, but the other boy slips through the doorway ahead of him, stands expectantly and grins.

“Too late now,” Ian says cheerfully. “You can’t get rid of me. Now, uh, lead the way.”


	3. Based on Movement

“Based on movement?” Ian pops another potato chip in his mouth. “The hell did that come from?”

“There’s no way we can know for sure,” Alan says, shutting the refrigerator door and opening the freezer. “There’s nothing good here. We have pretzels, would you eat a frozen pretzel?”

“C’mon, you know I’ll eat anything. And we can’t know for sure how they worked, yeah, but vision based on movement? On an apex predator? I’m, ah, not the dinosaur guy around here, but that seems pretty out-there.”

Alan shrugs and sticks two rock-hard pretzels in the microwave, sprinkling salt on one. “Well, what evidence is there that could contradict it?” 

“We know that predators tend to have fairly good vision, for one thing.”

Alan sets the microwave timer, turns around and leans back on the counter, facing the kitchen table. “T. rex isn’t like any other predator alive today. It may have hunted completely differently. Get your feet off the table.”

“Always the devil’s advocate.” Ian sits sideways in the kitchen chair instead, leaning to the side. “Well, get me the paper that’s from sometime. I can’t get it otherwise, I read different journals than you.” 

“Speaking of which—” The microwave timer goes off, and Alan removes the plates, sets the snacks on the table and takes a seat. “Speaking of which, don’t you have an ex -girlfriend on the yearbook committee? I’d like to change my senior quote.”

“What, to a Bakker quote instead of Horner?” Alan shoots him a look; he idolizes the latter paleontologist and dislikes the former. “Nah, that was, shall we say—an, ah, not an amicable split.”

“Doubt they ever are,” Alan comments, taking a bite of his pretzel. 

“Nah, sometimes I get lucky.” He pauses and laughs. “Someday I’m gonna find a nice girl and make her my ex-wife. Or guy and ex-husband, I’m not picky.”

“Good luck with that.” Alan glances up at the clock above the stove and does a double take. “Hey, did you know it’s past eleven?”

“What?” Ian glances back and then settles in his chair again. “How about that.”

“Your parents want you home anytime soon?”

“They always call here when they want me back, don’t they? It’s fine.” Ian picks up his pretzel again and says between bites, “We’ve got time. Tell me some more of your weird dinosaur theories.”


	4. Mammal Bones

“Why would you do this in your spare time?” Ian groans. He wipes his forehead yet again and halfheartedly tosses his trowel to the side, dramatically pretending to faint. “I’m surprised you’re not fully fried by now.”

“We’ve only been out here for two hours,” Alan calls, not even looking up. He brushes clumps of dirt aside with his giant paintbrush, scanning the ground thoroughly for little glimpses of bone; he found a very interesting mammal femur in this spot a few weeks ago, and he refuses to give up on finding the rest of the skeleton, Ian notwithstanding. The baking Utah heat stopped bothering him a long time ago; all that matters today is the rest of the bones.

“Alan, I feel like a—a strip of bacon and I haven’t even found a damn tooth this whole time. You wanna go back and watch a movie or something? At least until there’s an overcast?”

“It took me a long time to find this place again. I’m not leaving until I get at least a tibia.” He glances up for a moment, lowering his hat and squinting in the bright sun. “You haven’t found anything? This place is a hotbed.”

“Nope, too busy being, ah, cooked sunny-side up.”

“Then get over here and help me.” Ian, groaning, pulls himself to his feet. “And you shouldn’t have worn black in the middle of summer, you drama queen.” He gives a good-natured grin.

“Hey, I just gotta be me.” Ian sits on his heels next to the hole that Alan has slowly but surely been digging. “What – what side do you want me to do?”

“Start on the left, and then—wait!” Alan jumps and instinctively grabs Ian’s arm. “I hit bone!”

Ian leans over. “Where?”

Alan, vibrating with excitement, points to a spot where a little bit of tanned, weathered bone is poking out of the sandstone. “There, right there.”

The other boy adjusts his glasses and peers at the spot until his nose nearly touches rock. “I don’t see it.”

“No? Try and feel it.” Alan grabs Ian’s hand and puts one of his long fingers on the bone. “Feel that? Smooth.” He guides his hand an inch to the side. “That’s rock, that’s rougher. Feel the difference?”

Ian looks up, the spark of understanding finally in his eyes, and smiles. “Yeah, I feel it. You do the surrounding matrix, I’ll brush?”

“Sounds good.” Ian reaches for his thin paintbrush and Alan grabs his rock pick, and the two of them begin slowly chipping away at the dirt surrounding the little bone, Alan’s hand still comfortably resting on top of Ian’s.


	5. Bicker

Ian and Alan can’t seem to agree on a single thing. Every day in Computer Science, they bicker loudly and slam on desks to punctuate their yelling, and everyone else’s shushing and glares don’t do much except slightly lower their volume. They argue all the way down the halls and to their next classes, and they start spending more and more of their spare time together, probably just to argue even more. They spend time in the library after school and bicker there in forceful whispers, too, about mass extinction or metaphors in Thoreau’s writing or Da Vinci’s painting style or whatever else they’re studying in their mutual classes. It seems like they’re always debating, always at each other’s throats. To the people who are unfortunate enough to sit next to them in their classes, it seems like they’re always at odds, always different in the ways they think. 

Which is why no one quite knows how to react when the two of them walk into Economics II on a cold Tuesday morning, carrying each other’s books and holding hands. Even the teacher stares a little bit, and individual whispers make the classroom start to rustle like dry leaves. Alan keeps his eyes to the ground and turns red, but Ian just smirks and strides to his seat like a celebrity on a red carpet. When someone not-so-covertly points to the couple, Ian raises his eyebrows, smiles defiantly and kisses Alan on the cheek.


	6. Football

“No way is that girl on the top staying there,” Alan says over the roar of the crowd, pointing to the human pyramid of cheerleaders on the field below them. “Look, she’s leaning over… leaning… oh, someone caught her.” He glances over at Ian’s face; the bleak look hasn’t gone anywhere. Alan frowns, discouraged; it’s very unlike his boyfriend to be this upset for this long, and it’s getting to be genuinely distressing. Ian puts his arm over Ian’s shoulder and pulls him close. “Hey, I thought you loved mocking cheerleaders.”

Ian gives a weak, forced smile. “Yeah,” he says, his voice barely rising above the assorted chatter and cheering from the bleachers around them. “I guess I’m—ah—not doing my duty, am I?”

“I’m not going to sit here and be cynical for you all night.” He points to a particularly tall football player from their school’s team. “Look, that’s the third time that guy’s fallen over in an hour. Call him a troglodyte or something.”

“My heart’s not in it, honey,” Ian says, slumping over and leaning on his fist again.

“Idiotic contest of brute force? Wasting their lives throwing around a little ball? Overblown show of masculinity? Come on, your commentating’s the only thing that makes this garbage bearable.” At this point, Alan will do pretty much anything to get Ian to cheer up again.

“Hey, do you mind?” A blonde girl in a hoodie in the row below them stares daggers at Alan, and her friends mimic the gesture. “Some of us are watching a game.”

Alan quickly stands up, pulling Ian up by the hand, and moves down the rows to the exit of the field. After some of the reactions that their relationship has gotten over the past six months or so, derisive looks, insults and outright aggression have stopped having any effect on either of them. They’ve learned to block other people out and exit situations without confrontation, and they’ve begun to do it out of instinct. The two of them finally get to the concrete doorway that marks the entrance to the field and make their way toward the parking lot. As soon as they walk out, the crowd erupts into a deafening cheer behind them, presumably for a touchdown. “Glad they got rid of us,” Ian mumbles.

They slowly stroll through the dark parking lot, alone except for the close-packed rows of cars. “You wanna talk about it?” Alan says softly, wrapping his arm around Ian’s back.

“Alan, I can’t—I can’t fuck this up,” Ian says, his voice wavering. “My midterm grade sucked and if I don’t get… I can barely keep my C, and I suck at English and…” Ian struggles to find words, and Alan notices his eyes starting to get watery. That of all things really sets Alan into panic mode—Ian almost never cries.

“Hey, hey, don’t worry,” he says quickly, patting Ian’s back. “Don’t worry, you can pull your grade up.”

“But what if I don’t?”

“You will, trust me. And if not, well, you’re kicking ass in every other class. You’re going to college for math, right? You’re top of the class in math. Colleges will still take you.”

They walk along silently for a minute; Alan steers them toward where he’s parked, near the middle. “I just don’t wanna fail English,” Ian mumbles. “I—I don’t fail things. I just don’t.”

“I know, honey.” They finally reach Alan’s car, an old red truck with more rust on it than paint, and he unlocks it. “Want me to drop you at home?”

“Can we wait a few minutes?”

“Sure.” Ian climbs into the back seat and Alan follows, shutting the door behind him. Taking a deep breath, Ian lets his head fall back against the seat and crosses his arms, sniffling a little. “Hey, Ian.” Ian opens his eyes. “It’ll be okay, all right? You’re still the smartest bastard in the whole school. I know you’ll make it. I’ll help you out if you need me to.”

Ian smiles a little, genuinely this time. “You teaching me? That—that’ll be the day.” He leans to the side, putting his head against Alan’s shoulder and relaxing, and Alan adjusts to put his arms around him. 

“Don’t worry,” Alan says, beginning to soothingly run his fingers through Ian’s curls. “I’ll still let you think you know everything.”

“Of course,” Ian murmurs, and then they both fall silent, the calming chirps of insects outside creating a comforting rhythm. It isn’t long until Ian’s breath turns light and shallow as he falls asleep in Alan’s arms.


	7. Game of Life

Ian’s house is Alan’s house and vice versa. This has been an unspoken and unchallenged assumption ever since the first time Ian unexpectedly strolled into Alan’s kitchen before school one day, plunked down at the table and started shoving pieces of toast in his mouth without preamble. So when Alan shows up in Ian’s otherwise-empty house and in the doorway of his bedroom one evening and says, “Well, the prom thing’s over,” the other doesn’t even look up from the bulky computer monitor he’s working at.

“Yeah?” Ian says, still raptly staring at the computer screen and waving for Alan to sit down; he just kicks a few piles of black clothes out of the way and stands behind Ian’s swivel chair.

“Yeah, the word got out somehow and Reynolds”—their principal—“pulled me aside and said we can’t do it. We can go, just not as a couple.”

Ian snorts. “Yeah, well, fuck ‘em. I wasn’t paying for a tux anyway.”

“So we’re not going?”

“Would you, uh, like to stand around in a monkey suit and pretend to be heterosexual while Queen plays for four hours?” Alan makes a face, and Ian doesn’t need to turn his head to see it. “Yeah, thought so. C’mon, we’ll do something we actually wanna do. I’ll take you to White Castle or some shit.”

“Fast food?” Alan says with faux indignation, reaching down and playing with Ian’s free hand. “Can’t you at least try to be romantic?”

Ian flashes him a grin and then returns his eyes to the all-important computer. “You—you know you shouldn’t expect too much romance from me, baby.”

“Really? So what were those flowers last week?”

“An—an expression of respect for your intelligence.” He pauses, reaching up to grab Alan’s hand. They stay silently for a minute, fingers intertwined and listening to the tiny clicks emitting from the computer’s speakers. 

“What’ve you got there?” Alan finally asks, pointing to the screen. It’s displaying little blips of light flaring up with color and then going black, the tiny units forming intricate patterns and rippling with little waves and disruptions. It’s constantly changing and almost hypnotizing to watch.

“Game of Life simulation. It, uh, shows patterns in evolution, to put it simply.” He points at the center of the screen, where a little group of light-blocks is flicking around so fast it can barely be kept track of. “See, it starts from here outward. This is my initial configuration. All these little pixels are individual organisms and if you watch their interaction, you—you can see the ways the initial conditions affect the outcome.”

“And why are you doing this with your Saturday night?”

“Well, look at it. It’s amazing. I just put a couple of little blocks—cells, I mean—together, and look what came out of it.” He sweeps his hand across the monitor, indicating the bustling network of wildly colored pixels. “Just the littlest change and it grew into something incredible.” The room falls silent again, and they both stare at the screen for a minute, Alan leaning forward. “Sorry about prom,” Ian awkwardly interjects.

“I don’t care,” Alan sighs. “We’ve got better things to do. Go to a house party or something, there’ll be at least one.”

“Or we could, uh, just not bother at all.” The tips of his fingers brush Alan’s wrist. “We could stay here and do what half the other kids are doing anyway.”

“What?”

“You know.” 

“You trying to tell me something?”

“No, not at all.” Another long silence descends over the room, filled with an unusual tension that neither of them really knows what to do with. Alan returns his hand to his side, and after a moment, Ian pushes his keyboard aside and swivels around. He stands up, tentatively grabbing Alan’s wrist. “Hey, you know what?”

“What?” Alan’s heart has started thumping in his chest for no discernible reason.

“He can say whatever at school, but Reynolds can’t do shit about us here.” He leans forward and hesitantly kisses Alan’s jaw.

Alan chuckles a little. “Guess you’re right.” Ian’s lips move to his ear and then forward, his long fingers starting to dance over Alan’s sides. “Fuck ‘em, huh?”

“Mmm hmm.” Ian’s mouth finally finds Alan’s, his hands find their way behind his boyfriend’s neck, and it’s all over. Ian shoves the chair to the side and it topples to the floor, but neither boy notices. Keeping the other’s body firmly pressed against his own, Alan finds some way to back up toward the bed. Still keeping their kiss intact and fumbling with Alan’s belt, Ian haphazardly shoves a huge pile of books and clothes off the comforter and they fall down together, the room seemingly growing warmer as jeans are yanked off and a pair of glasses practically flies across the room. Ian pauses for a moment with his shirt half-open and tries to toss the blanket aside, but Alan’s hand yanks him down into the bed again, and he grins and obliges. Their kisses harden and then grow more fluid, and soft moans start to fill the room once both of their clothes are in a pile on the carpet. 

Ian’s long, clever fingers work themselves lower and lower, and Alan’s body yields to them and then returns their pleasures in full force. As the night wears on, the forgotten computer simulation silently continues its work. As cries and whispers fill the room, patterns and colors still bloom on the monitor screen, unfolding in endless, complex beauty.


	8. Out the Window

It takes a good few minutes for Alan to make his way up to the third floor of the school and figure out exactly what the hell it is that Ian’s doing. When he finally gets to the second classroom on the right, he’s greeted by the sound of slightly raspy laughter and the sight of Ian Malcolm tossing papers out an open window. “I’m not asking what, I’m just asking why,” Alan says as he approaches. He doesn’t wonder if his boyfriend’s gone off his rocker—that happened a long time ago.

Ian turns and grins, panting a little. “I’m finished. I’m done. Eureka!”

“You finish that paper?”

“Nah, college applications!”

Alan leans against a desk and lets himself fall into the seat. “You didn’t finish until now? I did mine three weeks ago.”

“Well, uh, you didn’t have more than thirty of ‘em, all with three-page essays.” He gleefully tosses three more sheets of paper out the window and watches them flutter away in the breeze. “I’ll never do another Ivy League questionnaire. I feel like singing.”

“Oh, you poor little thing.” Alan rolls his eyes. “Why are you throwing ‘em out the window?”

“Don’t worry, I made photocopies. I wanted—wanted to watch my troubles fly away. And if I recall, you only did one, you lucky bastard.”

“I only needed one. And I knew Berkeley would let me in anyway.”

“So you got accepted? Hey, good for you!” Ian tosses the last sheaf of papers into the air, spreading his arms and throwing his head back triumphantly. 

“Not a big deal. I knew they’d take me. Now what about your stack there? Did you apply to Berkeley?”

Ian pauses for a moment, watching the last of the white sheets fall until they’re just specks on the lawn below. “I might’ve,” he says thoughtfully. “The whole process was, ah, a bit of a blur.”

“Well, try to remember for a minute. Or at least tell me if you get a letter.”

“Does it matter?”

“It does. I’d like to know if I’ll get to be with you next year, and I must say I’d prefer to.”

Ian turns, still gripping the windowsill, and raises an eyebrow. “And why is that?” he says in a different, teasing tone of voice.

“You know why.”

“No, no. I wanna hear it.”

Alan lets out an exaggerated sigh. “’Cause I love you.”

“There it is.” Ian strolls over and kisses Alan on the forehead. “Love you too, and I’ll let you know how it goes. In—in the meantime, help me go down there and pick those papers up, will you?”

“Why don’t we go home and let the janitor get it? And you need to finish your valedictorian speech. We’re graduating next week, they can’t do anything to us.”

Ian pulls him out of his seat by the arm. “No, no, not this time. I’m throwing ‘em out again.” Alan groans under his breath. “Come on. We’ll never be in high school again, you know.”


	9. Graduation

As soon as the graduation ceremony is over, the entire school campus is filled with utter anarchy. Parents fight through the crowd to hug their children, former classmates jump up and down and scream and the sky has as many tossed hats in it as it does clouds. After a long, loud reunion with his parents and brother filled with shouts of joy and incredibly tight hugs, Alan remembers the posters and notebooks left in his locker, excuses himself and slips away to the school building. He slowly walks through the empty halls for one last time, a sense of desolation washing over him that has little to do with the fact that he’s leaving the school.

He shuffles through the second-floor hallway, locates his locker and pulls out everything that’s his, trying to get the task over with as soon as possible so he can get the hell out of there. He slams the door shut when he hears another set of footsteps coming down the hall, thinking he’ll get chewed out by a lingering teacher, but he looks for the source of the sound and sees the only face he didn’t want to look at today.

“Getting nostalgic?” Ian calls as he approaches Alan’s locker. “Don’t worry, you’ve got undergrad and grad school after this. You’ve got a long way to go before school’s out, my friend.” He leans against the wall across from his boyfriend, and noting Alan’s silence, continues, “How’d I do on the speech? Didn’t I—didn’t I tell you I could keep the stuttering down?” Alan silently continues emptying his locker. “What’s the matter? Four years of work not long enough for you? Staying here over the summer, are—”

“Asshole,” Alan finally snaps, his face away from Ian.

“…Excuse me?”

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Alan’s voice is jagged and a little hoarse, and he angrily slams his notebooks and other possessions onto the floor as he talks. “I knew this wasn’t—wouldn’t be a permanent thing. I knew it, you’d dump me like all those other—people you dated. But you could’ve at least applied to Berkeley, Ian. You could have at least given me a little hope.”

Ian licks his lips thoughtfully and opens his mouth to say something else, but Alan isn’t done. “Well, it was fun anyway. And if you don’t care enough about me to even try to stay together, I’m glad you’re letting me know now. Thanks for not wasting my time.” He finishes with a curt, “See you,” and starts down the hallway, arms full of his stuff.

“Wait just a minute,” Ian’s voice rings after him, and something inside Alan makes him slowly turn around. “Before you, uh, go calling people assholes, dear sir, you should maybe ask yourself something. Have a little question in your head like, ‘hey, if I do this little monologue, will I come across less like a spurned lover and more like a bad rom-com heroine?’”

“My parents are waiting for me.”

“Just one minute. What makes you think I didn’t apply to Berkeley?” 

“Ian, I have to go.”

“Just tell me and I’ll let you leave.”

Alan exhales, aggravated. “Guidance counselor. He told me you’re going to Yale. He said you got the letter last week.”

“The hell does an acceptance letter mean? I got an acceptance letter from Bob Jones U, but you don’t see me hightailing it there. And no, I’m not going to Yale.”

“Yes, you are. It’s a good school, and,” he swallows, “you deserve to go there, and besides, the guidance counselor said—”

“The guidance counselor is wrong,” Ian says firmly. “He made an assumption, and he’s wrong. Much like someone else I know.” He shoves a piece of paper into Alan’s hand. “Read.”

“I don’t have time to read a—”

“I said read.” Alan rolls his eyes and unfolds the paper. It’s expensive-looking parchment with a seal at the top and the words in some neat cursive font. He scans the first few words:

‘Dear Mr. Ian Malcolm,

Congratulations! We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to the University of California at Berkeley. We look forward to—‘

Alan stares at the letter for a minute, the words forming a huge black blur. Slowly, he looks back up and sees that smug, see-I’m-right grin growing on Ian’s face. “Are you?” he says finally.

Ian shrugs, still smiling. “Don’t I always tell you? You can’t get rid of me.”

Alan stares for another minute, and then there’s a huge crash as he drops everything he’s carrying onto the tiled floor and pulls Ian in, embracing him as tightly as he possibly can.


End file.
